


To You

by AnGoose, PastaPapi, Y_ellow



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, CottageGore Aesthetic, Epistolary relationship, Get together fic, HAPPY ENDING!!, M/M, Mention of Illness (mental & otherwise), Peter Parker/Gwen Stacey - Freeform, Peter Parker/Johnny Storm - Freeform, Polyamory, Wade Wilson/Frank Castle - Freeform, Wade Wilson/Nathan Summers - Freeform, Wade Wilson/Vanessa Carlysle - Freeform, Wade Wilson/Weasel - Freeform, Wade and his Berets, contains trace amounts of, terminally ill character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastaPapi/pseuds/PastaPapi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow
Summary: Deadpool’s quest to make best friends with Spider-Man is a strange and convoluted thing, made all the more complicated by the letters he keeps finding in his safehouse. They're all addressed to “Ben, Love Peter.” And they’realljust a little too on the nose regarding Spidey’s personal problem of the month. Wade isn’t going to say no to a little extra insight into how to woo his very best Spider-Friend, though.Or, five times someone mistakes Wade’s crummiest safehouse as a post office, and one time Wade plays the sexy-mailman part in this (emotional) porno and hand delivers a letter to Spider-Man.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 77
Collections: Spideypool Big Bang - The 2020 Collection





	1. Glow Ups, Bedpan Alternatives, and The Start of it All

**Author's Note:**

> A GIGANTIC thank you to [Atem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atemluver/pseuds/Atemluver) and [Water](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) for cheer and beta reading, y'all are the real gems of this show, along side Pasta's GLORIOUS art (and SPAG checks, we-the-authors see and appreciate your sneak edits <3)

When Wade finally stumbles into his safe house, it’s with the smell of burning flesh and ash clinging stubbornly to his skin. 

The misshapen flooring adds insult to injury as it completely and utterly fails to support the charred mess of melted flesh and barely functional muscle masquerading as a leg. 

“Dick move, floor,” Wade mutters and instantly regrets it as decay and mildew punch him right in the mouth. The stench is strong enough to cut through the cloying smell of weeks-long torture and lingering flames. The sting of it makes him cough, long pained heaves as air rattles through freshly regenerated lungs. 

Nothing like a six-inch splinter and a face-full of asbestos to say, “Welcome home, honey!”

He slouches in the entryway, eyes adjusting to the dark, crypt-like insides of the cottage _(no electricity or running water here, no sir-ee!)_ as he soul-searches for that zest-for-life that drove him out of Weapon X’s tender clutches. Or, at bare minimum, enough zest to limp the rest of the way inside his safehouse.

Hell, at this point, he’d accept some artificial lemon flavouring.

Wade would rather gnaw off an arm _à la_ Aron Ralston than drag himself one step further. 

No. He’d rather worship Francis’ piss soaked boots than drag himself one step further. 

No, no! He’d rather get Landsharked by Weasel _(again)_ than drag himself one 

step 

further. 

He’s _exhausted,_ drained right down to the stirrup bones that still tingle faintly from regenerating. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like when your inner ear realigns.

(Wade has a sinking feeling that he’s going to be getting very, very used to the sensation.) 

The vertigo adds a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to the otherwise cramped space, a kingdom no interior decorator would be caught dead in.

_Everything the moonlight touches is ours, we Kings of dust bunnies and cobwebs._

Something crunches distressingly under his bare feet as he hauls his long-suffering carcass to the decrepit four poster bed, making a hasty introduction between his face and the moth-eaten comforter. The door swings shut behind him, closing with a fatalistic click. 

“Well isn’t this just fucking spiffy,” he mutters through a dusty mouthful of what might have been, once, eons past, a delightfully garish depiction of a gaggle of geese gamboling in a garden of gardenias. 

Across the room, a large rat pauses its shameless shortcut across the tiny, 'refurbished farm-style wash basin' (all the kitchen space today's modern bachelor needs!). Its beady eyes gleam belligerently, as if to say, ‘It was _your_ turn to dispose of the bodies!’

Roomies, _oh emm gee!_

Anyway.

Welcome to Wade’s Wilderness Retreat, where the hordes of Hell aren’t! 

Population: one undead merc with a mouth, two uninvited boxes, one (?) rat, and enough complimentary dust to give even _his_ shiny new healing factor a run for its money. 

_Home sweet home._

At least it’s a charming neighborhood, and the housing prices are _dirt_ cheap. Luscious greenery, old-growth trees, moss-covered decorative stone work… The neighbours all know how to mind their own fucking beeswax, no one freaks out if his work follows him home, and there’s only one asshole loud enough to wake the dead in a fify kilometer radius (and that asshole is six foot two of grade-A-for-Asshole Canadian beefcake). And with his new looks, Wade fits right in! Just one more walking corpse in a crypt of them. 

Yup. Safehouses in gritty warehouses or swanky Uptown penthouses are _passé,_ vintage cottages are _in._ Everyone knows the best place to go to ground is somewhere everyone’s _already_ underground. _Six_ feet underground, to be exact.

That’s right. Wade’s trendy abode is smack dab in the center of a graveyard.

It’s an excellent place to hole up long enough to recover, to plot the demise of a psychopath and the downfall of his organization, and to indulge in a bit of hard-earned wallowing in between.

( Sound familiar? You know this part of the story already. Probably? Definitely. Let's take a quick jaunt down memory lane anyway. 

Wade’s ‘Existence is Suffering’ montage starts with the capital-E capital-C El Cancer. 

That part’s shitty, as shitty as Weasel’s green fucking smoothies and non-consensual shots of wheatgrass, as shitty as Vanessa’s pamphlets and the abyss lurking behind her eyes. 

But it gets _better,_ because Jed Rees in his role as kiddo-diddler sells his bull feces so convincingly that Wade actually, really believes him. Believes that he, Wade Winston Wilson, screw up extraordinaire, might make it as someone extraordinary. That he could be a _hero._

 _Ha._ What a _moron._ Seriously, what loser would believe that pack of lies? 

Meeting Francis ranks right up there on the shitlist with the ‘round the clock torture, but the real kick in the nads is knowing that he walked out on Vanessa _for nothing._ ( Wade _knows_ Hell. Dipped his toes in early, and didn't quite manage to claw his way out until after that blip in his early twenties he’d rather not admit to remembering. The thought of Vanessa waking up with him gone, gone, gone, not even a grave to mourn with, no closure, _that’s_ a pain that digs into his marrow and won’t ever let up. A bright red agony far worse than anything they can do to his body. ) 

_Francis_ though. Francis does try. _A+ for effort._ Wade _does_ get to be a special snowflake after all! And now he knows exactly what it feels like to heal and die and heal and die in a bubbling, vicious cycle of eternal decay and regrowth. (Burning and healing and burning and healing and burning again until there isn’t anything left to heal, but healing anyways.)

In short:

 _Fuck. Francis._

There. All caught up. )

Let’s get back to the shitty cesspit of despair Wade is going to be calling home until his dignity regenerates. Or at least his balls. At least he doesn’t need to regenerate the bloodlust and violent tendencies. _Those_ are permanent. 

Wade has spent his entire life angry down to his bones, but there’s something new and unfamiliar about this anger. This anger _burns,_ hatred and fury and desperation twisting in his gut, tangled and tangled and tangled and — 

Well. 

Francis is going to live just long enough to regret what he did to Wade, because Wade is going to dig until he finds _every last_ pain receptor. And then, once maximum pain has been extracted, once Francis fixes his butter-face, once Wade is _good and fucking ready,_ he’s going to put a bullet right between those baby-blues. Bed-y bye-bye, Francis! 

But first things first. Wade is still weak as a newborn kitten, healing bits he didn’t even know he _had,_ in need of a good meal and at least twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep, and, oh yeah, still buck naked. Wallow now, revenge sequence later. 

_Maximum. Effort._

He rolls to his feet and shuffles the five agonizing paces into the kitchen nook. He takes a second to whisper a few fervent _thank you’s_ to past-Wade for the emergency stash of MREs and bottled water in the cooler under the sink. (Past-Wade is so _rarely_ helpful, it bears acknowledging.) Present-Wade maybe-possibly forgets how to swallow (for _shame),_ but with perseverance, gumption, and a _can-do_ attitude, he manages to choke it all down. _(Daddy would be so proud!)_

Small mercies: there’s still a pile of kindling strewn (like one Wade Wilson’s hopes and dreams) next to the ‘charmingly rustic’ (piece of shit) woodstove. Thank _fuck_ Wade is a mother-fucking _expert_ at starting fires. He’s not about to freeze his baby-balls off after just growing ‘em back, _thanks._ Housekeeping achieved (call him Zombie Martha Stewart), Wade shuffles back to the moth-eaten bedspread, patting the nearest goose right on the snoot as he lands, using his kamikaze momentum to burrito-roll himself into becoming one with the flock. The resulting cloud of dust glimmers in the fire-light like stars. 

Wade sleeps.

( His dreams are filled with ruby red blood and the flickering heat of hell-fire. For all that it burns, licking up his skin in a tortuous caress, Wade doesn’t have the air to scream. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe — ) 

With a jolt, Wade wakes to the taste of three-day old dead squirrel in his mouth, a throbbing migraine turning his frontal lobe to jello, and the acidic burn of fury coursing through his veins. 

_Shallow breath in,_ lungs fill with dust and ash and cremated remains. Francis’ blood stained smirk, teeth bared in a snarling, a constant companion even behind closed eyelids. 

_Shallow breath out._ Watch the billowing cloud of heated air, a reminder of burning alive, a reminder of the smoke, thick and cloying and the last thing Wade saw before his eyes melted out of his skull.

 _Shallow breath in,_ ignore the heavy weight of particles grating against delicate tissue, ignore the way it feels like drowning, ignore how it feels like suffocating in a box all over again. _Shallow breath out,_ watch the cloud of warm air rise and dissipate, watch it rise like the swell of pain coursing through his body, loud and demanding, but never quite enough to drown out the rage. 

Repeat. 

Repeat. 

Repeat until the urge to start running blurs, and with it the urge to hunt Francis down like a bloodhound after its prey. Repeat, repeat, repeat until the urge fades to a dull thrum in the back of his head, instead of an all encompassing _need._

Repeat, repeat, repeat, because patience has never been Wade’s strongest suit. This time around, he’s gonna need some help. 

To kill Francis, gotta _find_ Francis. To find Francis, gotta start with Weasel. 

Baby-steps, Wilson. 

The elephant tap-dancing over his bladder drives him out of his musty blanket-burrito nest, interrupting his dreamy fantasies of gouging out Francis’ eyes and popping them like grapes. Too far to the privy, emergency nalgene bottle to the rescue! 

Morning absolutions out of the way, Wade dusts off his comfiest pair of red-hot flaming-cheeto panties, slipping into his softest velour moping sweatpants ( _and_ matching crop top). The worn, familiar fabric feels like pins and needles against his hyper-sensitive skin. 

He absentmindedly worries the grooves and divots of his new skin as he wanders about the space, digging stubby fingernails into exposed sores to see if the sting of it will change anything (spoilers: it doesn’t), wondering if he could reach into the soft warmth of his insides and carve out whatever it is that aches and creaks and feels unrepairable. What does it matter, if he ends up with a few (more) blood stains?

In the end he settles for some food, mind adrift as he shoos his furry roommate—definitely a Camilla, from the looks of those whiskers—away from yesterday's trash pile to scavenge something edible. As he’s shoving half an MRE in his mouth, his eyes land on an unassuming slip of paper. 

_You’ve got mail!_

Wade reads the short letter from start to finish. Something that might be akin to shame tickles up his spine, but hey, this place is his, and therefore so are its contents. Why write a letter if it’s not meant to be read? Wade isn’t the intended _destinataire_ you say? Finders keepers, bitches. Besides, who knows how long it’s been waiting for its worm-food reader? Anyway, kid’s a little off (and about six feet up) on the postage address. 

Wade tucks the letter away in its final resting place as he leaves the cottage, whistling cheerfully as he heads off to a busy day of fucking shit up for Francis. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that jazz. 

Except it’s not out of mind at all, because Wade can’t help thinking about what it means to be responsible. What it means to _do the right thing._

A fox slinks through the graves, low to the ground. Hunting. The fox creeps up towards an unsuspecting bunny, pink tongue hanging past sharp canines. A pounce, a squeal, and it breaks the bunny’s neck with a savage shake of its head before slinking away with its prize.

Wade watches the whole thing with something like satisfaction in his gut. Or maybe that's the MRE not sitting right. 

Either way, this shit’s about to get personal. 

* * *

> Dear Uncle Ben,
> 
> I miss you. I don’t know why I’m writing this. You can’t read it. Obviously. I don’t even know what I want to say. 
> 
> But. But I need to talk to you, because I — 
> 
> You used to say that I got my parents' head, their smarts. Well, I like to think that if I got their head, I got your heart. The best of them, and the best of you and Aunt May. 
> 
> I don’t think I ever really told you that while you were alive. 
> 
> I love you, Uncle Ben. You and Aunt May always made me feel loved, even when I was being a pest, even though you never wanted a kid. You never made me feel like a burden, even when I was. When it cost too much to get me new shoes every time I outgrew mine. When it felt like I could eat everything in the fridge and then some. When I did any of the annoying things kids do without ever really thinking about it.
> 
> I wish you could see me now. I know I think you’d be proud of me. I’m not that same kid who thought he had everything figured out, when it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I understand what you were trying to teach me, that night, about responsibility, and about power.
> 
> Too little, too late, maybe. But I’m trying. I’m trying. 
> 
> It took me a while to really get used to how I am now, but I know myself, and my limits. No more sticking to my bedroom walls or getting caught in the sheets! 
> 
> Do you remember that time when I was six when you took me to the Stark Expo, because I begged and pleaded and promised to do extra chores all summer, even though you had to take the day off work and didn’t really understand why I was so interested? And instead of getting angry at me for putting myself in harm's way, you praised me for wanting to do the right thing, and taught me how to choose my battles. 
> 
> I think about that a lot, about what you would have thought, about what doing the right thing really means. I have tougher battles to fight now, and I don’t always have backup, but I’m making a difference. 
> 
> I just wanted you to know that. I just wish you could have seen me grow into myself.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [o n e…](https://twitter.com/SteveBooscary/status/1350712633004072961/photo/1)


	2. Good Boy Meet Cute

Wade finds people, because of course he does.

At first, he had some vague notion of being a lone wolf. Of being a stoic, isolated avenger until he kicked Francis's ass and got his pretty face back.

(Well, Weasel aside. He would always have Weasel. Wade wonders, sometimes, what it says about him that he's willing to cut himself out of Vanessa's life for her happiness, but would never do the same for Weasel.)

But he finds new people, because despite all of the horrible changes he's undergone from Weapon X (not irrevocably, they better be revocable, he _needs_ them to be revocable) his sociability is unaltered.

His unfathomable bronergy, Weasel tells him mournfully, cannot even be hindered by his raisin-y exterior.

There's a cantankerous, blind, (questionably) former cocaine addict.

There's the cabbie with a heart of gold and just a _tiny_ pinch of murder.

There’s the _wrong Francis,_ and who would have guessed that such a strong, _sensual_ friendship would come out of accidentally kicking down the Punisher’s door?

It had been awkward for about five minutes as an exceptionally buff, black-haired beauty scowled at him from over his Instapot while Wade connected ‘answers to Francis’ and ‘doesn’t react to being hit in the kidney with a tire iron’ with a new face.

Then he’d taken a big whiff (for information gathering purposes, obviously), realized that the Instapot roast beef was destined for mediocrity, and rushed the spice rack of an increasingly confused Frank Castle. To this day, Wrong Francis still thinks Deadpool broke into his house to avert a culinary travesty. It’s slightly less embarrassing than telling him the truth.

Wade’s pot roast rescue paid massive dividends, though. Not only does he have another arms (and also weapons) enthusiast friend, now he has puppy petting privileges! He lives for those slobbery kisses. And sometimes he gets to pet Max, too.

Anyway. 

Those people come effortlessly. They fall into Wade’s orbit like they were always meant to be.

The point is: they're _easy._

But not all things worth having are easy.

From the moment he first spies Spidey webbing up some discount Halloween costume wearing asshole while spouting a truly _inspired_ (and quite frankly hurtful) litany of _incredibly_ personal insults, Wade is a goner; friendship-boner popped so fast he feels a little light-headed.

He _needs_ to be friends with this delightful little creep.

Unfortunately, said creep seems to be on the same page as the X-Thems regarding Wade’s place on the hero-villain spectrum.

Apparently, he's the _Bad Guy._ Duh. 

Wade would gladly put bruises on both his knees for Spidey, but his constant heroic sacrifice and blatant sexual availability don’t get him any closer to bromance. Wade is a persistent guy, though. And underneath that tough, chitinous exoskeleton, he knows there’s a squishy interior of friendship sloshing around, just for him.

So in his downtime between hunting down leads on Fucking Francis, Wade makes some carefully calculated moves to win over New York's resident Webhead.

The pupusas are a failure.

Spidey thinks Wade is trying to poison him. Wade’s assurances that if he wanted to kill Spidey he'd do it without ruining perfectly delicious street-food are less than effective.

The taquitos, gyros, and philly cheese steaks all fail, too. He does manage to force some playful banter out of his soon-to-be BFF as Wade chases him around, takeout in tow, so at least it's not a total wash.

Finally, when he approaches with carefully balanced takeout boxes of drunken noodles, Spidey slumps his shoulders in defeat.

“I'm so damn hungry,” Webs sighs, and reaches out to take the box Wade wiggles seductively in his direction.

“You know what this means?” Wade cackles as he settles down next to his new friend.

“We are _not_ friends, Deadpool,” Spidey grumbles, then yelps when Wade snatches the food back.

“Friendship noodles are for friends only!”

Spidey glowers at him, the wide eyes of his mask eerie in the gloom. Finally, his stomach growls and he breaks.

“Fine! But only like, sorta friends. Not close, inner-circle friends. 'In a class together with none of our normal friends so we pair up for group projects' friends.”

“Bold of you to assume I went to school and understood that reference. Aaaaanyway, all I'm hearing is the word ‘friends’.” Wade grins and hands the food back.

Webs’ little moan when he shoves the first bite of food into his mouth is positively _adorable._

“Yeah, that’s right,” Wade leers playfully at him, “taste that friendship.”

He can feel Spidey roll his eyes even if he can’t see it.

“I fought a brick wall this week,” Spidey whines, rather than argue the flavor of their shiny new relationship.

“Like, picked a fist fight with a wall in an alley? Did you get drugged?” Wade prompts, eager to get the dirt.

“No, like,” Spidey gestures wildly, “it was this brick wall with arms and legs and everything! It kept coming at me, it was so weird.”

“Are you _sure_ there weren't drugs involved?” Wade grins, trying to imagine which scenario was funnier—Spidey fighting a brick wall with limbs, or Spidey on a bad trip, sparring off with the side of some building in an alley.

Spidey flashes him a _look_. At least, Wade’s pretty sure. It’s a little hard to interpret when Wade can't see his eyes, and also when he’s thoroughly distracted by a dollop of sauce dripping tantalizingly down the corner of his mouth and down that heroic jaw. 

“You've seen my rogues gallery,” Spidey snorts. “A sentient brick wall wouldn’t be the weirdest thing in there. It literally called itself ‘The Wall’.”

“If you didn’t sing at it, I’m going to be gravely disappointed,” Wade pants around a mouthful of increasingly spicy noodles.

“How do you think I defeated it?” Spidey smiles. His cheeks are turning a little pink, and Wade would like to think it’s from their interaction, but he’s pretty sure it’s because of the noodles.

“I assumed you kicked and webbed at it as usual,” Wade shrugs. Because for all that Spidey’s takedowns are a joy to behold, they’re usually based on the same couple of moves.

“Well,” Spidey scratches at the back of his head, “ _after_ that failed. But! It turns out The Wall really hates Pink Floyd. Called them ‘derivative, talentless hacks’. I eventually got a bunch of old rock ‘n’ roll dads to drag it off. I’m a little afraid they tore it down. Would that be murder? Do you think the individual bricks have consciousness and they just kind of slide together like a slime mold, or do you think it’s like a normal body, and tearing it down would be like… dismembering someone? I didn’t hear screams…”

Wade snorts, and they fall into an amicable silence for a couple of minutes. Then — 

“Deadpool, I really hope you brought something to drink, because these noodles are way too fucking spicy.”

“Yeah… about that…”

Spidey sighs dramatically. “Trust the guy who sent noods to leave me thirsty.” 

The subsequent erection is not _strictly_ platonic, but Wade ignores it in favor of beaming at his new buddy. Then he winces as the corners of his lips crack and spicy sauce seeps into the open wounds.

Still, he manages to smile through the pain as he croons, “Bee tee dubs, my sweet little wrecking ball, the name’s Wade.”

“What?”

“When you scream my name after the slow-burn spice hits.”

* * *

Wade crashes at his little shack in the cemetery one last time before finally going to confront Francis.

A letter waits for him on the floor, just like that first time, when he first came crawling back from Weapon X smelling of ash and blood, seams nearly bursting with red-hot anger. Anger that the time spent hunting Francis has folded over and pounded and tempered into a blade nearly as sharp as Bea or Arthur. He even has a new skin now — red and black and every bit as terrifying as what lies beneath it. The letter has changed much like him, sitting there in a different sort of envelope and written on in blue pen instead of black. It seems right. Like bookends.

Wade doesn't think twice about sliding a knife under the flap of the envelope and pulling out the unevenly folded page.

* * *

> Dear Uncle Ben,
> 
> I think I've got this figured out. I think if you could see what I'm doing now, you'd be happy. I like to tell myself that, on the hard days.
> 
> I've made some new friends. I think you'd like them.
> 
> One of them might be more than a friend. I don't know. But she's so nice and brave and smart and I think if she had ended up in my shoes, she wouldn't have made so many mistakes. Not that I'd ever wish this on someone else. I know better than to think of it like that anymore. I like being her friend. I want to be more than just a friend. I don't know if it's okay for me to want that. I’m not sure if it’s responsible. I wish you could tell me.
> 
> My other “friend”, I'm not too sure about. He's crass and brash and has no regard for the sanctity of life. But he's also thoughtful and caring and funny, and I think in his own way he's trying to be good. I think he was given an even more difficult gift than I was. I know you always felt strongly about second chances. I suspect this man needs more than a second, or even third chance. Even so, I think it would be worth giving them to him.
> 
> But then he goes out of his way to fart upwind from me, so what am I supposed to do with that?
> 
> The third new friend is kind of… well, she’s kind of a jerk! She calls it being ‘blunt’ and ‘straightforward’, but I’m not so sure. I don’t mind it too much, because she’s usually right and at least I always know where I stand with her at any given moment. Either way, she keeps me honest. I think you'd get along with her very well. I can't really tell her she reminds me of my dead uncle, but she has a lot of your spirit, I think. Not so much your manners, but that’s fine. It would be really awkward if she reminded me of you too much.
> 
> I guess what I mean to say is…
> 
> I love you. I miss you. I think I've found some people who will make sure I honor your memory.
> 
> Love always,
> 
> Peter

* * *

Wade kills (the correct) Francis and saves the girl.

Woo.

Except the changes turn out not to be revocable. They are in fact _thoroughly_ irrevocable. Permanent. No take-backsies. 

He's stuck with the Sun-Maid nightmare claymation life five-ever.

Vanessa informs him that, despite his new visage, he is not, in fact, chopped liver. 

And later, when they're back at _Sister Margaret’s,_ she’s generous enough to inform him that he can even sit on Weasel's face. So. That's that.

It’s over. It’s done. What is, is, and he can move on now. He even gets to move on with Vanessa in his life.

But somehow, despite Wade and his most favorite people being alive, and Francie and his pack of pickled peckerheads being six feet under, it still feels like Wade lost.

He doesn't want to tell Vanessa this, doesn't want to get scolded by Wees over it either. So instead he does the exceptionally mature thing and sits on a rooftop, moping.

“Hey,” Webs calls, sounding surprised that Wade didn’t turn around to greet him at the first crunch of little spider feet.

“Hey,” Wade replies glumly.

“So I hear you finished off ‘Fucking Francis’,” Spidey settles down next to him with a huff of air.

Wade does not want to hear it. There’s one thing he _actually_ feels good about in that whole, entire final showdown fiasco, and that’s putting Francis right where he belongs: in the digestive tracts of a thousand writhing maggots. His shoulders tense, and he readies himself for the inevitable condescendingly heroic lecture.

Instead, he hears: “I've got day-old, discount, gas station donuts.”

Wade gives the box of stale ‘pastries’ a skeptical look. Spidey just shrugs and grabs one, waggling the box in Wade’s general direction as he bites into his own with a look of grim acceptance.

“I thought when I got him, I could undo all of — ” Wade waves at himself “ —this.”

“Oh,” Spidey says. His voice is tinged with a touch of surprise and (infinitely worse) pity.

“I used to be hot,” Wade tries to explain, feeling stupid as he does. “Like, ten out of ten, would totally bring home from a bar and fuck.”

“Ah.” Spidey tries to pat him on the shoulder, and only succeeds in mashing the donut against him. It doesn’t ‘smush’ so much as it crumbles in a distinctly unappetizing fashion. Wade knows Spidey’s seen his jaw. Enough to know — or at least guess — what’s really going on under all the sexy, sexy leather.

Wade sighs. “But it can't be undone. That toothpaste is not going back in the tube.”

“I know this is going to sound rude as hell,” Spidey says after a moment of not-quite awkward silence, “but I'm glad you're still here.”

Wade snorts and Spidey nudges his shoulder.

“Seriously. I know there are other heroes I could be friends with and stuff, but I can't joke around with them like I can with you. I'd miss your leathery ass.”

“In the immortal words of Thomas Edison, it’s very beautiful down there,” Wade agrees with theatrical solemnity, and selects one of the donuts.

“Did — did you just incorrectly quote John Green? About your own ass?” Spidey stutters, sounding appalled.

Wade smirks and shoves the pastry into his mouth, chewing slowly.

He chews a little slower.

“This tastes like fryer grease, and despair,” he finally informs his very favorite Spider-Friend, through a mouthful of high-fructose cement.

“Hush,” Spidey says. “It tastes like friendship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [o f...](https://twitter.com/Atemy_Draws/status/1350827041051049984/photo/1)


	3. The (Dead) Girlfriend Club

Wade hates to say it, and hates to mean it more, but he’s glad he’s still here, too. Scars and leathery ass and all. 

He doesn’t (won’t ever) have his looks back, but Francis (the correct Francis) is worm food, Wees is Wees, Vanessa is her charming, fiendish, sex-kitten self, Spidey-bro is his _bro_ and things are good. 

And then, Vanessa dies. 

Like, super duper dead. For realsies. No take backsies. 

Her absence is like a crater in Wade’s chest, something deep and jagged that won’t ever heal over. Something that no amount of friend-noods will fill, that no amount of dicking-downs can mend. Something that threatens to swallow him whole and digest him alive and kicking. (Wade would know. He’s got a shiny lifetime ban to all zoos, aquariums, conservation centers, and wilderness safaris within the state of New York to prove it.)

So Deadpool paints the town red, killing and dying, dying and killing until there’s only one name left on his shit-list. And in the end, none of it _fucking_ matters, none of it helps _even an itty-bitty-bit,_ because— 

Because no matter how hard he tries, not even Deadpool can kill Deadpool. (And Deadpool definitely can’t put Deadpool back together again.) 

It gets to the point where he can’t even convince Wrong Francis to give him a good Punishing, no matter how annoying he gets. He makes dead-kid jokes ‘til he’s blue in the face and all he gets is a sad, sad look and a manly fucking _shoulder clasp_ that somehow isn’t even firm enough to bruise for a second.

Weasel gives him three days to stink up the bar with his misery before escorting him home with near-bruising tenderness and tossing him ass-over-teakettle into the scalding shower. (Which for Weasel really is tantemonious to a declaration of eternal devotion. And the way he somehow manages to double down on infinity, staying by Wade’s side through the funeral, steady, a physical barrier between Wade and the world where Vanessa isn’t, is even more than that.) 

And then: time, meet relativity. Curtain fall. 

Weasel leaves, and then there’s no one left to sucker punch Wade out of crying his tear ducts right out of his face. He cries big, fat maly tears of heart broken woe; cathartic and painful and chased by a migraine. 

There’s still a reddish brown smear on the floor where she bled out. Wade sits by it for what might be hours or days or years, or at least until his joints ache, until his skin feels tight and itchy and ready to fall off from lack of care. (Maybe he could peel it off like an ill fitting suit, leave himself in pieces beside the last bits of Vanessa.) 

He can almost hear her voice, can almost hear her teasing him for being an absolute dumpster-fire of a human without someone there to hold his hand. 

And she’d be right.

Without her, Wade is left shuffling about their (his) apartment. He picks at the sluggishly bleeding gash on his abdomen (still not quite enough to kill him), and thinks about explosions. 

_Boom!_ Blowing himself up in their (his, now, only his) apartment would be poetic. Beautiful. Making art out of shit. 

But he just. can’t. bring himself to torch the last place on earth that holds a piece of his Ness. 

It’s the last place that smells like her, and he just can’t bring himself to douse it in gasoline. 

Because even now, beneath the stench of his despair and the rust of her life-blood, his _(their)_ apartment still smells like her. Like her citrus shampoo, and her rose-hip body lotion, and her favorite perfumes, and her favorite Toasted Nut lube. If he presses his face into the couch cushions extra hard he can still get a faint whiff of her farts. (Yes, Wade goes there.)

Missing Vanessa is like missing a limb. Except for how he’s never once cared about missing limbs, and how this is _so much_ worse because she is (was) Wade’s _everything_. Everything that matters and then some. 

Missing her isn’t a feeling. It's a state of being. 

It’s stamped onto every cell, and there’s no way to get rid of it without getting rid of Wade Wilson too. 

* * *

Pre-Weapon-X-Wade liked sex and Vanessa and Weasel and money, not always in that order, and masked his pain with crude humour and violence.

Post-Weapon-X-Wade was still all of those things, just a little more unhinged, a little bloodier, and with twice as many yo mama jokes.

After mutating into Freddy-Kruger’s left nut, after avenging (but not fixing) his gorgeous money-maker, Wade was _(is)_ also outright _terrified._

Moping on rooftops with Spidey with half his face out like the world’s ugliest ball-sack is one thing, and riffing-off against Weasel’s only sometimes-well-meaning jabs is another, but Vanessa is _(was)_ a universe unto herself.

( Wade was always fragile in her hands, and it was cute (often), and it was fun (always), but that was _before._

 _After_ Wade needed every second from those five years to build up the nerve to go crawling back to her. Because Vanessa was always an absolute _goddess_ at ferreting out weak points, and twice as shameless about using them. Because it would have been so very easy for her to cut him to ribbons with a single well-chosen word, one poorly-hidden grimace, the briefest wince.

So yeah. Wade was terrified that one peek at his new brown-bag special would scare her off, would send her packing. For good. Terrified that she would cut him out of her life faster than he could say ‘Bernadette’. )

The thing about Vanessa is _(was)_ that she always knows _(knew)_ when to be rough and when to be gentle. 

Post-Weapon-X-Wade needed all the things that Deadpool _wasn’t._ He needed soft touches and tender caresses and light fabrics that wouldn’t feel like sandpaper against sensitive skin. He needed nice things and pretty sights and gentleness.

Vanessa knew, because Vanessa _always_ knew, and Vanessa took care of him, because Vanessa _always_ took care of him. Because she cared about him. Because she was willing to do the little things he wouldn’t ask for. Because her baggage still (mostly) matched his, even after five years of tango lessons with seperate demons. 

Sometimes she would bring home bouquets of flowers. Big, pretty botanical arrangements that smelled like green growing things. 

Sometimes she would buy silky robes, far too big for her, and drape the decadent fabric over his shoulders. And if (when) she caught him staring at himself in the mirror with disgust, she would wrap her arms around him from behind, the silk from their twin robes matching so beautifully. She could whisper in his ear about how well they suited him, about how pretty they made his eyes look, and he’d believe her. And they were always _so_ soft. 

She would compliment the lotions he tentatively picked out for his dry, flakey skin, after some gentle prodding. Thick creams that smelled like apricots and sunshine and that _definitely_ weren’t marketed towards blood-drenched killers with moldy avocado skin. But when her strong, warm hands would smooth them on, Wade felt like maybe they were for him, after all.

She bought him that first beret, the one that made him feel cute and pretty and more _Wade_ than _Deadpool._ (Bought it for him just because he ogled it through the shop window one quiet Sunday, having stepped out for a lazy morning stroll to their favorite local sex shop for more lube.) 

(It’s a silly thing, really, shaped and coloured to look like a bright red cartoon mushroom. It’s a bit twee, and definitely wouldn’t suit a man like him, he tells himself. The only thing that suits a man like him is a full-body condom, and even that’s a stretch. 

But Vanessa doesn’t think so; Vanessa says he looks fetching, and she kisses the tip of his scarred nose right there in public like she actually-definitely-really isn’t ashamed to be seen with him. She acts like he’s worth keeping, even now, even like this. How strange it is, to be wanted. Even his own mother didn’t want him, and that was when he was cuter than a button. Wade doesn’t have any words to explain how it makes him feel.)

* * *

Eventually, when he can’t stand the thought of moping around the tomb of an apartment for another second, Wade heads out into the night to go mope on a rooftop instead. If he’s really, really lucky, maybe he’ll even run into Spidey up there. Misery is easier to bear when it's shared, or at least that’s what they say. (‘They’ say a whole lot of horseshit, but being with Spidey can hardly make things _worse.)_ Maybe Spidey will conveniently bring some more convenience store day-old donuts, which Wade will conveniently choke to death on and get a few minutes of R-I-P.

And lo and behold, Spooder-Lad is on their rooftop.

Wade can relate all too well to the way his head is bowed, strong hero’s shoulders curved in like he wants to disappear into himself. 

(Wade has a brief, flickering hope that Spidey’s mood is because there _were_ donuts, and Spidey made the fatal error of eating each and every one of those deep-fried poor life choices. But no. Wade knows the difference between indigestion regret and Big Feels, and this is definitely the latter.)

“Hey there,” Wade says as he swings his legs over the ledge. He slumps a respectful distance away from Spidey, and if his voice comes out too gruff to explain away as anything other than hours and hours of really gross sobbing, at least Spidey is too far in his own head to do anything about it.

Wait, no, that’s probably bad. Spidey needs his head screwed on straight (ha, straight) to fight baddies. _Must fix,_ says the part of Wade’s brain that likes hockey, muscle cars, and ice-fishing.

“I…” Spidey starts, trails off for a beat, and eventually settles on, “I messed up, Pool. I really, really messed up.” 

His voice cracks and Wade blinks, because no, Spider-bunny, no. Wade knows that self-loathing tone, knows the desolation lurking behind words like those, knows what must be tic, tic, ticking behind Spidey’s glazed over bug eyes. 

“Whatever happened, however it happened, it wasn’t your fault,” Wade says evenly, meaning every word. _Hypocrite._

Spidey scoffs, and Wade hums, _because, yeah, that’s fair,_ and says, “Vanessa’s funeral was last week,” _à propos de rien._

“Shit.” Spidey says, sitting up straight—not quite an eff bomb, but score! Too bad Wade isn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate Spidey swearing. The little pottymouth adds, “I’m sorry for your loss,” like the good little Jewish boy he is. 

Wade nods jerkily, and asks, “So who’d you lose?” because he’s not a good little Jewish boy (but he sure could use a little good Jew in ‘im). 

Spidey breathes out, slowly, and he might be fighting the urge to pummel Wade for his lack of tact, but after a beat, he says, “A very close friend. My best friend. My girlfriend.” 

“All at once, huh? That’s rough, buddy.” 

“I just…” his throat clicks audibly, swallowing down the grief, or at least trying to, “I promised to keep her safe.”

Wade exhales slowly, worrying the inside of his lip. “Yeah, Spider-babe, that’s what love is. It’s making promises you don’t really understand, and keeping the promise anyways.” 

Spidey snorts. “Again with the John Greening at me, Wade?” 

Wade butt-scooches close enough to knock his shoulder against Spidey’s, grinning wide enough to hurt, his eye holes bending into happy little creases he really isn’t feeling. “The marks humans leave are too often scars,” he provides, in his best Mother Theresa impression. 

Spidey turns back to the void, a twinkling void filled with artificial light and assholes and glorious humanity. He makes a noise like he might be thinking about it, or like maybe he’s just trying super duper hard not to cry. Might be both. 

They sit in companionable silence, both lost in thoughts of loss, and misery, and stars, and love. 

Spidey breaks the silence first, with a quiet, “Thanks, Wade.” He shifts like he’s about to shoot off a web, then hesitates, turns to Wade, and says, “If people are like breakfast cereal, then you’re _Pop Tarts: the Cereal,_ mixed in with _Holiday Sprinkles Cookie Crunch,_ and with OJ instead of milk, and it has _no_ right to work but _it does_ and there’s no going back to regular old cornflakes after that.“

And then, before Wade can pick his jaw up from the floor, Spidey rudely yeets himself into the beyond. 

_Spidey John Greened him back!_

And then — _Spidey thinks I taste good!_

Wade watches as his Spider-bro swings off to his Spider Web of Woes, watches until that perky little ass swoops beyond the edge of a building. He waits until it’s all the way out of sight (but _never_ out of mind) before finally heaving himself up. He can’t bear the thought of going back, is all. Can’t bear the though of being alone with her blood and absence and the memory of her death drowning out the memories of her life. 

Weasel made it crystal-clear that violating his seventy-two hour banishment would warrant a dick full of buckshot, so there’s only one place left for him to go:

Wade’s Wilderness Retreat. 

There’s a new letter when he slinks into the cottage, waiting for him on the perpetually dusty floor like a fallen autumn leaf. The ink smudges under his fingertips as he reads.

He reads, and he wonders. 

Wade might not be at his best, but he’s not an idiot. The rat squeaks, curious. “You’re right, Camilla,” he tells his favorite rodent therapist. “Something about this correspondence smells like Teen-Spirit and handy plot devices.” 

* * *

> Dear Uncle Ben, 
> 
> I lost someone very important. 
> 
> She died in my arms, and I couldn't do anything about it. Just like that night you died. 
> 
> I couldn’t save her. I tried. I tried but in the end I only made things worse. Just like that night you died.
> 
> I keep thinking, if only I could have done something differently, maybe she wouldn’t be dead. If I had reacted faster, if I had been stronger, more prepared. Maybe if I had left her out of my mess to begin with. She’d be making groundbreaking scientific discoveries, or just… living. Alive. 
> 
> It was raining during the funeral. The rain probably made it look like I wasn’t crying. Maybe I wasn’t. 
> 
> I want to think of her smile. I want to think of her the way she was in life—happy, beautiful, and so very smart. I want to think of her kindness, of the way she smelled, of the way she felt in my arms when I showed her the way our city looks from up high. But all I see is the fear when she realized that I wasn’t going to catch her in time. The way her mouth looked as she screamed my name. All I can think of is the fall. 
> 
> Those three seconds just play out over and over again in my head. It's all I see when I close my eyes. Like reliving it, over and over again. The way the ground rushed up towards me so fast, the air roaring in my ears. The split second where I really thought I was going to be able to save her, to be the hero, to walk away with the girl and get the happy ending. And then the snap. 
> 
> She didn’t deserve to die like that. She deserved so much better than that. She deserved so much better than me. 
> 
> I’m pretty sure she’d tell me that blaming myself is a waste of time, that New York needs me too much to wallow in misery. It’s not about that though. I don’t know if I trust myself anymore. What if I mess up like that again? How many other deaths will I be responsible for? 
> 
> The worst part is that I can’t tell anyone that I was there. Not really. Not in any way that matters. 
> 
> I have this friend who’s going through something similar, but he didn’t know her, and he doesn’t really know me. Talking to him helped a bit. And I think having someone to talk to helped him. Misery really does love company. 
> 
> I still feel so, so alone. 
> 
> You always knew what to say to cheer me up, to help me confront my bullies. Even just thinking about what you would tell me used to be enough to keep me going, to keep me motivated. She helped with that too. Did I ever tell you? She helped me so, so much, whenever I was feeling your loss. You would have liked her. I wish you could have met her. 
> 
> I wish you were here.
> 
> Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [M U S H](https://twitter.com/Atemy_Draws/status/1353724638631780352/photo/1)


	4. Like a Drunk Text After Midnight

Slowly, gently, this is how the hole in his heart is healed: clogged by all the people worming their way in. His precious, newly-upcycled F-Word, all of them bearing their own scratches and dents.

They merge their broken shards into some bizarro funhouse mirror reflection of a family unit. Instead of the beautiful bouncing babies he’s sure Nessa would have contributed, he gets Russell. Russell is no beautiful bouncing baby. He is, however, exactly the kick in the pants Wade needs, and the kid a man like Wade deserves.

Not that Russell is the only one to be someone else’s new Little Shit; Wade’s daddy issues have daddy issues (just ask Camilla), and Wade’s love language is ‘pure irritation’. Wade finally met his new tall, dark, and paternal in the form of a curmudgeounly cyborg who is _way_ too committed to fanny pack fashion to be heterosexual. Cyber-Daddy even deigns to stick around a little bit before running off to do some lame-ass ‘saving the future’ business. Wade briefly considers asking Cable to take him with, but he’s too afraid of rejection to get the words out. Besides, Russell doesn’t need a second father-figure walking out on him. Not so soon, at least.

So between Russell’s weekly vid-chats to make sure he’s settling in okay at the X-ploding Mansion-That-Occasionally-Functions-As-A-School, and his regular cross-app messaging with Domino (which often includes urgent 2am questions from him about whether right now is a good time to grab Russell and go on a spontaneous vacation)… Wade’s doing okay. Coping well enough that even Camilla the Rat stops giving him the beady-eyed stare of judgement.

He’s okay. Really.

And nothing’s ever perfect, so there are still days when he curses his inability to hitch a ride on the Cable-Express, or considers finding a way to make the ceasing of his heartbeat permanent. 

But then he remembers Spider-Man. And remembers that he’s basically the only in-costume F-Word Spidey has. He would never leave his Spidey-bro in the lurch. He’s a good friend like that! A fact that he proves by showing up with teeny tiny crepes from the most ridiculous food truck he’s spotted yet.

Spidey doesn’t even comment on the impractically tiny crepes; that’s how Wade can tell he’s in a bad mood.

Well, that and all of the huffing and staring at his phone. Spidey usually doesn’t do shit like that. He’s usually good about at least pretending to be engaged when Wade brings him free food. This evening, however, he barely grunts a ‘hello’ before devouring his micro-crepes without a _single_ remark about their size.

Determined to distract his grumpy companion (and get some sweet, sweet attention), Wade sidles up next to him and throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Girl problems?” he sing-songs, attempting to peer at the tiny phone screen in an exaggerated manner so Spidey can close it or push it away if there’s anything compromising there.

Spidey merely emits a disgusted groan.

“Boy problems?” Wade guesses again. Spidey’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly under Wade’s arm.

_Ding ding ding!_

“Awww, little sparrow,” Wade croons. “Did you trust a handsome man?”

Spidey puts a hand on Wade’s face and pushes him away, hard enough to detach the mercenary and send him careening into the cement. It would have given a lesser man a concussion, but it only gives Wade some delicious brain tinglies.

“The handsomest,” Spider-Babe grumbles, flopping backwards.

The confirmation that his Spider-Friend is also attracted to men makes Wade’s intestines do funny things. He knows, _he knows,_ that just because Spidey is attracted to men in general it doesn’t mean he’s attracted to Deadpool. But there is, maybe, a modicum more hope now than there was ten minutes ago, and that’s not nothing.

Wade’s about to ask for more details (or maybe attempt a come-on), when Spidey huffs out a loud sigh, wraps his arms around himself, and starts talking.

“I really fucked it up. He said we’d still be friends, you know. Friends who messed around sometimes.” Spidey pauses, and then laughs bitterly. “I didn’t know that after you’ve been naked with someone, the things we used to share all the time become ‘too intimate’.”

“Sounds like a fuckboy,” Wade shrugs.

“The biggest fuckboy in this dimension,” Spidey agrees, sounding far too morose. Wade frowns. They’re supposed to be making digs at this asshole, not mourning him!

“Do you think I can fix it?” Spidey asks finally, his voice small. “Like, if I stop the… the other, not friendship parts?”

“It might help,” Wade replies, obnoxiously slurping the filling out of a micro-crepe, “but it’s not just your problem to fix, so…”

“Yeah.” Spidey slumps for a moment, before straightening back up with forced brightness. “Thanks for the food and advice, ‘pool. Those crepes were positively microscopic! They fit, what, an eighth of a strawberry and like, a quarter teaspoon of creme fraiche. Has food science finally gone too far?”

Finally, some appreciation! Wade laughs and steers the topic towards the miniaturization of food, and how it’s on track to outpace the miniaturization of computer parts.

Days later, the Fabtastic Four are fending off yet another attack by Dr. Doom (and _damn_ if that fucker doesn’t have it in for them. Possibly worse than Wade’s Fucking ((Correct)) Francis hate-on was). Deadpool is involved only incidentally — the Dunkin Donuts where he’s waiting in line to order ended up in the blast radius, and Wade’s going to get his blueberry coffee even if he has to carve his way through a thousand bodies to do so.

It turns out to be more like eighty-five Doombots. He counts.

During the dramatic final showdown, The Human Torch runs out of butane and plummets to the earth, right in front of Wade. He wonders if Torchy’s waiting for the last second to dramatically flame back on, or if he’s about to have front row tickets to the hottest pancake splat in town.

From that height, it’ll _have_ to be a closed casket funeral. He’ll resemble hamburger even more than Wade does. Man, that would grind Johnny Storm’s pretty little gears.

Johnny doesn’t recover. But before the final, fleshy fireworks, a figure in red and blue comes swinging out of nowhere. In the blink of an eye, the plummeting underwear-model-slash-superhero is scooped out of the air and carried with practiced grace to the ground.

Fucking Spidey and his cinematic last-second rescues. God, Wade wants to be the recipient of one someday.

He imagines being cradled in those strong, lean arms. Held like he weighs nothing. Maybe he’d even get the chance to reach out and pull up his rescuer’s mask, press a kiss to his lips for — 

Fuck’s sake! That’s exactly what the Human Torchick is doing!

Wade hasn’t wished for someone’s painful death this bad since Fucking Francis was still breathing. That absolutely flaming douchebag.

The only thing that makes him feel even slightly better is that Spidey’s cheeks are turning the same battle-red as his suit and he’s pulling away, dropping Johnny the Douchebag Storm like a hot potato so he can jerk his mask back in place.

Wade can’t quite make out the words that they exchange, except that Spidey seems absolutely furious, and Johnny looks like he’s pleading. The Sexy Torch reaches out for Spider-Bae’s hand, only for it to be snatched away.

Spidey comes stomping his direction, and Wade can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

“That your fuckboy sex friend?” Wade asks as he approaches.

“He’s a fuckboy alright,” Spidey snarls back, loud enough that the asshole can definitely hear him.

The little shit has the decency to look hurt, at least.

Wade laughs until his stomach aches, pointing at Johnny and slapping his thigh with the other hand just to make sure he knows exactly who is being mocked. He does it for long enough that the rest of the Four gather around and guide a confused, heart-broken Johnny away.

Then Wade gets his hard-earned blueberry iced coffee and giggles some more.

He’s still breaking out into little bouts of laughter while he waits with Spidey’s favorite chocolate babka, acquired from a very specific bakery with absolutely inscrutable hours. A special treat when they meet up that night during the middle of Spidey’s patrol.

* * *

Wade is finally, _finally_ composed when he visits Ness’s grave with fresh flowers the next morning. Even though the vases of blooms they kept in the apartment were always more for him than Ness, Wade figures it’s enough of a pain in the ass to haul them out here that she’d accept the gesture as her due.

He regales the story of Johnny Storm’s failed attempt at seducing a pissed-off Spider-Man after the latter had broken off their sex-friend relationship due to the former’s shit behavior. He tells her about the way Spidey had paced the roof that night, savagely tearing the chocolate pastry into perfectly laminated shreds and raging to Wade about what a fucking douchebag the Human Torch is. He doesn’t even laugh, though he can’t suppress the glee in his voice.

On the way out of the cemetery, Wade checks the cottage, just in case there is a new letter for good ole Ben.

He’s so delighted to lay eyes on office stationery that he dashes out to the nearest corner liquor store and gets himself a bottle of bottom shelf rosé and a couple of wine glasses before he deigns to open it.

He pours a glass for himself and one for Camilla, and he tears into the letter.

* * *

> Dear Uncle Ben,
> 
> I wish I could talk to you so, so badly.
> 
> I don’t know if you’d want to talk to me, though. I keep wondering, “would Ben disown me over this?” and the truth is, I don’t know. I never remember you saying anything homophobic, but I also don’t remember you saying anything in support, either. So I just don’t know.
> 
> This is me coming out, I guess. I like boys. Too. And. In addition. It’s not that what I felt for Gwen wasn’t real, it’s just that it turns out I can feel that way about men as well. Not that it mattered, at first. I promised no more dating, remember?
> 
> But then I found a boy who was my friend and who seemed safe to love. He already knew my secret, you know? He could take care of himself. Except it turns out he didn’t want to love me like I loved him. To him, we could either love each other emotionally or physically, but not both.
> 
> I’m trying to fix it. One of my other friends (is he a friend now? I think he might be for real) told me it wasn’t my job to fix it. Or rather, not just my job. That felt pretty nice. That it wasn’t all on me to make it better.
> 
> In my mind, you’re always telling me that I need to take full responsibility, but that was for different sorts of problems. I wish I could get your advice, and, yeah, your approval.
> 
> I hate that you’re stuck a certain way, now. I’ll never get to know if you would welcome who I am, if you’d tolerate it, or if you’d hate me. I’ll never get to know what sort of dating advice you’d give. I think it would be good, but maybe it would be just awful. Like your attempts at stir-fry.
> 
> I just wish I could know.
> 
> I wish you could tell me you loved me.
> 
> I wish that you would, if you were still alive to do so.
> 
> I miss you,
> 
> Peter

* * *

It’s a lot less cackle-worthy than Wade would like, but it’s enlightening.

Maybe a little _too_ enlightening.

Wade very carefully does not think about how Webs is going through the almost exact same problem. That Peter referred to a ‘friend’ (and oh, how that makes Wade’s stomach flip-flop, even though that friend is _definitely not him_ ) who gave him the same exact advice Deadpool gave Spidey.

Nope, he does not think about that connection _at all._

Brain aggressively devoid of Spider-Pete related thoughts, he goes home to Weasel and prances around in his acorn beret. When Wees goes to snatch it off his head, threatening to send it to the dry-cleaner (he’s given up on attempts to burn the berets, because Wade might actually kill him if he damaged one that Ness had picked out) he dances out of the way, letting himself be chased to the bedroom. After a brief but intense standoff at the bed he lets himself be delightfully cornered. Flushed and panting, Wees yanks the beret off with the cutest attempt at a snarl Wade’s ever seen and tosses it in the corner. Along with every other article of Wade’s clothing (and also his own).

“Wees,” Wade whines, thinking a bit about the definitely-unconnected-and-not-at-all-the-same boy troubles of Spidey and the mysterious Peter. How things might be, if not easier, at least a little less stressful if only everyone could come out on their own terms to their loved ones.

“Wees,” he starts again, bracing himself for a negative response. “I like having sex with men.”

Weasel peers up from between Wade’s legs, squinting without his glasses like the angry little mustelid he is. Then he roughly introduces a third finger to the party. 

“I never would have guessed,” he deadpans.


	5. Lazerbeam Bug Nets

Spidey is upset.

Not, like, angry, yelling, sobbing, ‘coating the inside of his mask with a fine layer of mucus’ upset. But definitely _some_ sort of upset.

The Amazing Spider-Man doesn't go completely En Cee on him, but suddenly there aren't any friendly team ups to rescue cats in trees. No more shared midnight meals of novelty street food. No more flinging noodles at each other while crowing "send nooooooods" after a particularly arduous alien invasion.

(Look. The Avengers get always shawarma, and Deadpool and Spidey always get drunken noodles from that one place with the extra-super-eye-searingly orange Thai iced tea and initiate a food fight. It's a totally valid tradition.)

Wade’s just making an assumption that the noodle thing is off the table with his recently reticent arachnid, and he's actually almost hoping for an alien invasion to see if it would snap Spidey out of his funk. He's not optimistic about his drunken noodly odds, though.

It’s just _weird._ There haven't been any huge supervillain attacks. No exceptionally cinematic and tragic deaths on the news. Wade checked: Spidey’s favorite gyro place isn’t even closed down by the health department this week! There’s nothing extraordinary at all to explain Spidey’s change of mood.

So of course, Wade can only assume he's the cause. He must have done _something_ to piss off Spidey so bad that all he gets are the occasional friendly waves or the thready calls of, “Hey DeePee…” wavering past as Spidey whips around the city at breakneck speeds.

The problem with that theory is that, while Spidey isn't the best communicator, he usually gives Wade _some_ hint as to why he's mad at him.

Like, “I'm upset that you held everyone at Macy's hostage for 17 hours, DeePee.”

Talk about _vagueblabbing_.

Anyway. 

Friendly waves and rushed greetings aren't exactly the best way to tell Wade he done fucked up big time.

Three whole _weeks_ of this has Wade (attempting to) pull out Weasel's hair. He’s been scanning newspapers and blogs for any scrap of information that might tell him what has Spidey’s non-existent panties im a twist (and, okay, he might have gotten a little distracted making a best of “Nina Totenberg quoting epic RBG Supreme Court Case burns” compilation, so sue him).

He’s in the middle of asking Weasel for help in constructing a super high-tech bug net so he can capture the little fucker and just _ask_ what's wrong when it comes to him: 

He could go check the graveyard shack.

Wade immediately tosses the idea out of his head like that lady tossing the contents of a chamberpot out on the road in _Hunchback of Notre Dam_. Nope. Nuh uh. That is forbidden knowledge that Wade does not have, and even if he did have it, he can't be certain of its veracity, so back to lazerbeam bug nets it is.

Maybe he can lure Spidey into the bug net with some beignets. Maybe he could make a bug net _out of beignets._

Wees finally throws him out on his ass after that suggestion, yelling at him to stay out until he gets his obnoxious slow-burn pining shit figured out.

Domino must have used her weird fake luck magic, and let Wees know to kick him out when the code word ‘beignet bugnet’ came up. That's really the only reason he can think of that his 1:32am moping mosey of shame leads him to the saddest fucking merry-go-round in the world, which just happens to be situated underneath the saddest fucking Spider-Man in the world, hugging his knees to his chest as it sluggishly spins.

Wade had assumed Spidey was mad at him, but this… doesn't look upset. ‘Upset’ implies an energy or passion which Webs is utterly lacking. Instead he looks… downset. Despondent if Wade uses his big boy real words, and he has a strong suspicion they might prove necessary.

“Spidey,” Wade whisper-calls as he approaches. He just wants to wrap the poor guy up in his arms, but he settles for sitting down a hopefully-respectful distance away. The additional weight makes the merry-go-round lurch unsteadily, and Wade has the sudden urge to kick off and set them both merrily spinning around. Spidey wouldn’t be merry, though. He’d probably be pissed. Wade keeps his feet firmly planted. Barely. 

“Hey, Deadpool.”

Wade does so wish Spidey would call him by his name.

The forced way Spidey unfurls into a casual lean is such an awkward attempt to convey ‘everything is fine here’ that Wade knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's long since hit the end of his rope.

Spidey is in total free-fall and Wade has no idea why or how to catch him without snapping his spine.

“Are you… okay?” Wade finally asks.

“Hunkey dorey,” Spidey replies, his mask stretching in the way that Wade knows it does when he's smiling. Or ‘smiling’, as the case may be. “But, uh, I was just taking a quick break, I've got to go back on patrol. It was nice seeing you!”

And with that, Spidey rockets off the merry-go-round and into the night, leaving Wade spinning disconcertingly fast.

“What the cinnamon toast hell?” he mutters, clinging to the bar so he doesn't get flung off.

The merry-go-round settles into a slow sort of back and forth motion while Wade sits there, trying to think. It's making him just a skosh queasy, but that's the least of his worries.

Spidey _needs_ Wade to catch him . He needs it or he's gonna pull a Wade-Post-Ness and while Deadpool can survive that, he's pretty sure Spidey wouldn't survive turning himself into an asphalt pancake. 

An ass-cake, so to speak. He hopes not to have to coin a new phrase.

Wade pretends he doesn't know exactly what he's doing as his feet carry him to a certain, inevitable letter tossed across a certain, familiar pile of boards, in the heart of a certain, cozy graveyard.

It’s there, just like he knew there would be. Wade suddenly feels queasy all over again, lifting the unassuming paper off the ground more carefully than he would a bomb. The contents are potentially as devastating . Does he want to risk it? Does he want to know? If he knows, then he’ll have to do something and if he has to do something and he fucks it up, how can he live with himself? And he’ll have to. Live with himself. That’s the deal, after all. Part of him wants to burn the letter, burn the whole fucking cottage, then entire damned cemetary to the ground and then somehow get Nate to come back for him and take him centuries away, so he doesn’t have to deal with the ramifications of this particular decision and — 

He takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t burn everything down.

He needs to do this. With fingers trembling so hard he nearly shreds the entire letter, Wade tears open the letter and reads. 

* * *

> Dear Uncle Ben,
> 
> Soon you won't be alone!

_—Wade stops breathing, eyes frozen on that tear-stained line. He has to take a deep breath before he can bring himself to continue—_

> I'm sorry. I don't know how to write this. I don't even know how to think it.
> 
> It's bad. Aunt May is looking at hospice pamphlets.
> 
> A month or two, maybe. That's what they're saying. Optimistically.
> 
> I should have caught it sooner. If I'd been paying attention I wouldhave. I was so worried about someone going after her because of me, or her getting caught up in one of the attacks somehow, and all of my own dumb shit that I didn't notice. I didn't listen closer. I didn't look closer. With my senses, maybe I even would have heard it.
> 
> I can hear it now.
> 
> I can't stop hearing it now, and I don't want to stop hearing it because when I do it'll mean that she's…
> 
> With you.
> 
> She wants to be with you. You deserve her more than I do anyway. I've been so negligent.
> 
> But if I had caught it sooner it would have bought her more time. She tries to reassure me that it was inevitable, even if we'd caught it right at the start, all it would have done is bought a little more time.
> 
> That's all it is, though. That's all anyone can ever do. A little more time. A few minutes or hours. Days. Weeks. Years.
> 
> I should have caught it in time to give her years. Instead she has weeks. Maybe a month or two. Optimistically.
> 
> And even now that I know we barely have any time left together, I keep running off instead of staying with her.
> 
> Doombots. Alien invasions. Mysterio on his bullshit again.
> 
> There's always something. I have to save the day for someone, because if I don’t then someone else will be burying a loved one. I can't be selfish.
> 
> But isn't leaving her alone like that selfish, too? I don't know what to say. I don't know how to act.
> 
> I'm so tired. I'm scared.
> 
> Every parent wants their kids to outlive them. Of course they do. And you and May have been parents to me.
> 
> It's just that...when I get knocked down hard, and I don't want to get back up, the reason I do is because I couldn't stand to make May go through that. Not again.
> 
> When she's gone, what reason do I have to get back up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [moar M U S H](https://twitter.com/Atemy_Draws/status/1354187193716252672/photo/1)


	6. Camilla Knows Best

Wade is hiding. 

Wade is hiding, and he can abso-dutely-didely admit it to himself, even if he won’t admit it to anyone else. 

Wade is hiding because somewhere down the line, between snooping through a dead guy’s mail, between little tidbits of a life gleaned from ink on paper, between rooftop meetings and violence and shared trauma, Wade went ahead and fell in love with Spidey-bro _(fell in love with Ben’s boy)._ Love, or at least something right on the cusp of it. 

Who’s Wade trying to kid? He’s _in_ love with Spidey (with _Peter),_ and it isn’t even all that hard to admit. What a _terrifying_ thought. 

Not the falling in love part—that part has always come easier to Wade than it should, easier than most people realize. So it’s not the _falling_ that’s scary. The scary thing is that, in Wade’s experience, the _being_ in love part is never easy. Not really. Not for long. 

( He thought Weasel might be the exception, but Weasel is a prick who doesn’t make anything easy, not even when they’re in the middle of making things hard. He almost dared to hope that Vanessa would be the true exception, might be The One, what with how seamlessly they fit together, but now she’s gone where Wade can never follow, not for long, not even with Maximum Fucking Effort, and that’s the _opposite_ of easy. Every time he falls, every time he reaches out to someone...they disappear. Just like Cyber-Daddy, fucking back off to the future right when Wade needs him the most—and that’s really just the shit-fondant on the crap-cake, the final straw in making this shitty metaphore’s bed. ) 

But Spidey is still around. 

He has been for a while. Slowly letting Wade creep closer and seeping so effortlessly into his life that it seems like they might both be caught off guard by it. 

Wade is falling, and Spidey’s still here, and that’s why Wade is hiding in the cottage, decked out like a french girl in his prettiest flowy flowery dress and sunflower beret, and Camilla the Rat is a _terrible_ therapist, seriously _the worst_ , but they’re making progress, working through some stuff. 

And that stuff is that Ben’s boy, Peter, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, is none other than Spider-Man. Wade is _sure_ of it. He’s willing to bet his dick on it, and we all know Wade Jr. is his third most precious possession. 

Anyway. 

Peter is Spidey, and Wade is in love with him (in love with someone who has become his very bestest bestie), and he should tell him. Peter deserves that much. 

Wade taps the pen against his lip. 

Camilla suggested a writing exercise, suggested finally answering one of Petey’s letters with one of his own, but for once in his life, Wade isn’t sure where to start. Maybe a lovingly rendered depiction of Wade down on his knees? That’s one of his _very best_ angles, after all. Oh, or maybe an illustration of Dogpool and Spidey’s fursona sharing a Lady-and-the-Tramp style meal, which will go _swell_ with the dog-shaped stationary Wade liberated from (the wrong) Francis.

They _do_ say a picture is worth a thousand words.

But nah. Spidey is a hero, and a friend, and he super-duper-definitely deserves to know just as much about Wade as Wade has unintentionally figured out about him. It’s only fair, after all. Oga for Oga, an eye for an eye, five painfully intimate secrets for five painfully intimate secrets. 

If Wade can trust anyone to take care of his (fragile) heart (figuratively, literally), it’s probably Spider-Man. Someone who actually totally sucks at taking care of himself, but doesn’t totally suck at caring _about_ and _for_ other people, and who might possibly be convinced to include Wade on that list. 

If Wade can trust anyone to understand where he’s coming from, it’s probably Ben’s boy. Someone who’s lost so much but still doggedly gets up and keeps going. No matter the odds, no matter the circumstances. 

If Wade can trust anyone for any reason at all, it’s probably Peter. 

Wade starts to write. 

He writes about how much Peter’s letters meant to him. 

He writes about how close he feels to their author, to Peter, how he feels now that he thinks _(knows)_ he knows who Peter really is. 

He writes and writes and writes, and it’s surprisingly easy to bare his soul to a figurative (but not literal) stranger, to talk about growing into his powers alongside Peter _(which, yeah, that makes more sense than puberty. Spider puberty?)_. It’s even easier to write about finding his X-Thems and meeting Spidey and finally, slowly, befriending him. The words pour out of him freely when he writes about losing Vanessa, about how she was his perfect fit, about how misery really does love company. And about falling in love, slowly, easily, without even realizing it. 

When Wade is done, letter sealed _(with a kiss)_ , he feels drained, spent. Like he’s just jizzed all over everything after six months of abstinence (but, like, emotionally). 

“Thanks, Camilla,” he calls, on his way out into the world _,_ “we shan’t be needing your services any longer!” 

It’s time to find a Spider, and hopefully pay forward some of that sweet, sweet comfort that Wade has been getting from their very one-sided letter-sharing. 

And maybe experience a little death in the process (or a big one, depending on how badly Spidey takes the news), but hey, that’s just part of being Deadpool.

Spidey is suspiciously easy to find, but Wade isn’t complaining. There’s a rainforest worth of butterflies in his stomach all of a sudden, and he kind of wants to get this done, _like a bandaid._

“Hey, DeePee,” Spidey says. “I was just about to head back out on patrol, just needed to catch my breath a second.” There’s a sad lilt to his words, and Wade knows—Spidey’s still teetering on that edge, that magnificent ass one wrong move away from becoming an ass-phalt pancake. And that would really _suck,_ but Wade is _going to catch him_ , and catch him right. 

“Just hold up a second, sugar-britches,” Wade says, all in one rushed breath. “This is gonna be really awkward, and there’s no good way to do it, but you deserve to know. And if I’m wrong—but I _really_ don’t think I’m wrong—this’ll make a great laugh at old ‘Pool’s expense, and I think we could both use one of those.” He shoves the letter right into Spidey’s surprised hands. Thank _you,_ Captain America’s Star Spangled Ass, for Spidey’s sticky spider-fingeys, or the letter would flutter to the ground in a _super_ anti-climactic way. (Which c’mon, with nearly 12K words worth of build up would just be _lame.)_

Spidey looks exceptionally confused, even through the mask, but Wade’s earned at least a little bit of trust by now. (Maybe not enough to, like, go sky-diving together, but at least enough to accept the letter without getting it white-powder tested, first.) 

He holds his breath, and watches as Spidey—as _Peter_ —reads, and tries not to wince as Peter starts to shake. It’s an Effort to keep his shoulders down from around his ears as Peter’s grip tightens and tightens and tightens around the letter, until the paper is all crinkly and at risk of tearing, until his fingers must be aching from the strain of it. 

And damnit, Wade doesn’t want his Petey aching any more. Not for any reason, but certainly not because of _him,_ and Camilla’s stupid fucking advice. He takes a step forward, with vague notions of unfurling those fingers from their death grip and kissing them better.

“Petey — ”

 _“No,”_ his Spidey-bae’s voice is all strangled and hoarse and oh, that sounds sore too, and Wade wants to kiss those poor, abused tonsils better as well.

The emotional stumbling gives Wade ample time to brace for impact as Spidey not so much lunges as collapses into him. The letter is crumpled in one tightly clenched fist, a papery wrecking ball of grief and rage and despair pulling a Miley Cyrus right through Wade's ribs. It’s not unlike getting hit by a very tiny train. His ribs crack a very teensy tinesy bit, and, well, Wade _did_ think about giving Spidey his heart, so it’s fine. It’s all good. No boundaries have been crossed on this side, at least.

Wriggling one arm out of Peter’s grasp like a particularly sympathetic eel, Wade wraps it tight around Petey’s trembling shoulders, trying to convey tender reassurance even as his own sides are being completely tenderized. (Spidey isn’t even using his full strength. The blows are more of a weak, emotional flail, but somehow still so, _so_ powerful. Spidey is just so _strong._ It makes Wade’s insides liquify, maybe literally this time.)

And like a tiny kitten taking its first tiny steps into the big world of maiming and tearing and shredding, Spidey exhausts himself quickly, until the blitzing becomes a gentle deluge of love taps, until he falls to his knees and drags Wade down with him. Wade holds Peter as he shakes appart in his arms, face hidden in the crook of Wade’s neck, slowly soaking through the material of both their suits with tears and snot and sadness too big to be contained in such a tiny body, too big to go anywhere but out. 

There’s ugly crying, and then there’s _ugly crying,_ and this is the _ugliest,_ and it’s breaking Wade’s ugly patchwork heart, but this is one of those things where the only way out is through. So Wade holds on tight as Peter sobs and rages and breaks into itty bitty pieces, holds on tighter as Peter’s sobs turn to sniffles, holds on tightest when Peter shoves his mask up past his nose to take little hitching, hiccup-y breaths. 

“Shhhhhh,” Wade does his best imitation of a white noise machine, rocking Petey gently. “It’s okay, I got you.”

“Reading mail that isn’t addressed to you is a federal crime,” Peter chokes out, his admonishment broken up by those huffing sobs that always follow a good cry.

Wade kisses the top of his sad little head. “To be fair, they weren’t actually addressed to anyone, and they didn’t have postage. And my safehouse is definitely not a post office.”

Peter’s next breath is more laugh than sob, and Wade takes that as the validation it so clearly was meant to be. _Take that, Camilla!_ Wade totally hasn’t been auto-destructing his own life by overstepping boundaries, hiding from emotions, and engaging in power-adjusted forms of self-harm! The ache that reverberates through his skull when Peter reaches up to slap the back of his head is just more sweet, sweet validation. 

“It was still a dick move, and you know it,” Peter croaks, voice rough around the edges, but no longer cresting over that edge, no longer quite as defeated. At least seventy, seventy-five percent less likely to turn himself into an ass-cake than pre-hug. 

“I do know something about dick moves,” Wade leers, and thrusts his pelvis playfully to emphasize the point. (With utmost care and consideration for Peter’s freshly-cleansed feelings, obvs.)

The laugh-sob and lack of any further physical violence assures Wade that he played it right. He continues rocking from side-to-side, and Peter doesn’t stop him, leans into it even, and doesn’t protest as Wade makes lots of those life-in-the-womb soothing sounds meant to comfort rather than to shush. His Petey-Pie could sure use some of that.

After a few (wonderfully drawn out) moments, Peter stops trembling, his hiccups subsiding.

“Did you mean it?” Petey mumbles into his chest. “About… about being in love with me?”

“I'm in love with you,” Wade starts, shifting to tuck errant spider-limbs in more comfortably and to rub soothing circles into the base of his skull, “and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things.” Wade pauses dramatically for effect. “I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labour has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.” 

“Did you just _correctly_ quote John Green at me?” Spidey asks, incredulous.

“You betcha, baby,” Wade says, exaggeratedly undulating his brow in his best imitation of an eyebrow wiggle. “And there’s more where that came from.”

Spidey scoffs. “Go ahead and keep it to yourself, Wade.” 

“But not in my pants,” Wade asks, hopefully. 

“But not in your pants,” Peter clarifies, and his smile, when the full force of its adoration is turned on Wade, is even cuter and dorkier than Wade could have ever hoped. It’s enough to make a merc think he might have a snowball's chance in hell of scoring, even. It’s enough to just _maybe_ hope for Spidey to be the one to stick around, this time. 

And when he leans in, Peter doesn’t move away, lets Wade bury his face in soft curls that smell faintly of Aloe & Waterlily, and clings back just as tightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for joining us on this epistolary ride! If you enjoyed it, then you should absolutely check out our betas' & enablers' works:
> 
> [Atem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atemluver/pseuds/Atemluver) is a SPECTACULARLY talented artist AND writer, responsible for such gems as [Ace in the Hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591437/chapters/64833052). More art to oogle on [tumblr!](https://atemy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Water](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) writes the most incredible, detailed, fun kink we've ever had the pleasure of reading, and it WILL put feels in you. Read all her stuff, but especially [Two Candles Short of A Housefire.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728225)
> 
> Atem and Water have teamed up to create a sensational Noir fic, coming out February 15th, so keep an eye out!!
> 
> And especially don't forget to give Pasta's fabulous art some love: here, [on twitter](https://twitter.com/SteveBooscary?s=09), or wherever it is that you consume your fandom content. You can also rebagel it over on their [tumblr!](http://stevebooscary.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And finally, do think to drop us a line, we feed on kudos & comments <3 [One of Mush!!](https://twitter.com/SteveBooscary/status/1352464236136587266)


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